Dove
by flamablechoklit
Summary: A collection of religiously themed short stories centered around Mello and Matt. Rated for vaguely described sex and things of that nature. No offense is meant by anything I've written; don't like, don't read.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** This is the result of too many year's Catholic schooling. I'm sorry, I just have to get this stuff out. Feel free to pm me about anything mentioned; Catholic practices are confusing. I'll do a VERY SHORT summary on the origin of the prayers and/or saints at the end of each story. No flames please. I own nothing.

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Sometimes, in the throes of passion, when he's rocking in sync with the lithe figure beneath him, every crevice of both their bodies gliding together, slick with sweat, Matt's mind will wander. How, he doesn't know, but it does... And he wonders what his mother might say, if she could see him now, pouring his entire being, everything he is, into this moment; into this boy.

_Let nothing disturb you_

But he always manages to push those thoughts away, because nothing really compares to the sight before him, and he'd much rather focus on that. Caring never has been Matt's forte, but somehow, the boy lying under him has always managed to stir something from within; something that the redhead himself would rather not acknowledge, because he knows what its like to be ripped apart from the inside out and he'd rather not go through that again... And sometimes, when its over, and dark, and he isn't quite close enough to hear the other's steady breathing, the darker part of Matt's mind will tell him he's been left alone again, and that's unnerving.

_Let nothing frighten you_

That was probably the only time he'd ever prayed and actually expected it to work. He hadn't believed in God, or anything of the sort, but that didn't mean he shouldn't try. It was more a coping mechanism than anything, because what the hell was he supposed to do? It's wasn't as though he could talk...to people... People were uncaring, the world was unforgiving, and by his second week of solitude and unanswered prayers, Matt had come to the conclusion that there was no God.

_All things pass away_

He can't remember the day, or the time, but Matt remembers nearly jumping out of his skin when the entire building swayed. He remembers thinking something about how he was already awake and out of cigs anyway, and that the 7-11 a few blocks down was open all night. He remembers seeing the smoke and thinking that a quick look around before the cops arrived wouldn't hurt anything. That was wear it became blurred though, because too many things passed through Matt after moving that concrete slab and seeing the one person he was absolutely positive he'd never see again.

_God is unchanging_

There is definitely something divine about him, something other worldly, because no one on earth is this naturally beautiful, especially with only three quarters of a face left. And even when Matt's newest platform has been stomped on (or unnecessarily shot at), or he is again being insulted for his taste in clothing, or his hair is being pulled and they're rolling around on the dirty carpet because even when they're fighting they like to feel close, Matt is content.

_Whoever possesses God wants for nothing_

Content because, well, what else is there? This is all he's ever known, all he's ever really needed. A handheld, a lit fag, and a feisty blonde with a chip on his shoulder the size of Antarctica; Matt will be alright. And maybe, just maybe, he can get along without the handheld... Maybe.

_God alone suffices  
_

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**AN:** The prayer was written by St. Teresa of Avila. She became a Carmalite nun at the age of 15. The sisters in her convent were much more concerned with worldly things than they should have been, and she strived to change that. She began having visions, through which she became more connected with the passion of Christ. She died at the age of 62. Her feast day is October 4th.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** So I got randomly inspired during my history class today, and this happened. The first one is tiny, and I was thinking about somehow forcing it in with the longer one, but I think it stands better alone.  
The first one is called No Inbetween. The second is Mid-winter Wind. And oddly enough, I was very happy while writing these, therefore I have no idea why they're so depressing. They are to me at least...

**Warnings: **Eh, uhm, angst? Nothing big.

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Mello wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but somewhere along the line, _St. Joseph, assist me in these studies that I undertake..._ had drastically transformed into _St. Michael the archangel, defend us in battle_. Whether with the mafia, on the way to a raid, or now, clambering down the rusty stairs of this shit apartment complex.

And what bothered him most, was that there had been nothing in between.

* * *

Two sets of boots, one standard combat, the other expensive alligator hide, thumped loudly down flight after flight of stairs. One set stops.

_St. Michael the archangel, defend us in battle_

"Mello..." The blonde turns in response, his sapphire eyes unfocused and distant. Though the gears of his genius mind are turning much too quickly for any actual thought process to take place, he is getting a few flits of chopped memories. Things that, either happened so long ago the scenes are hazy with wear, or things that require more attention than what he's willing to supply right now to be remembered. Suddenly, there's a hand on his shoulder, an arm around his waist, and a soft voice in his ear. "Calm down, you worry too much. You'll be fine."

And he answers, though it's not much more than a whisper,  
"It isn't me I'm worried about."

_Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil_

Down the stairs, out of the complex, and on the cold, January, slush-covered asphalt of the parking lot, their lips meet. An eternity passes, during which every memory each has with the other is played out in its entirety over the screens of both their minds. It's chaste, yet passionate, and says everything they could never say out loud. But it's over much too quickly, because another second probably could've convinced them not to go through with this.

_May God rebuke him we humbly pray, and do you, o prince of heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls_

There's the roar of a bike engine, and smoke from the exhaust pipe of a red muscle car. Sad, isn't it, how the only traces of two of the most brilliant minds to ever grace the earth, can be lost in the mid-winter wind.

 _Amen_


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Wow, I updated two things within a few hours of eachother... Thank the Amp for that. Guess who beat Matty in an energy drink contest. -smug grin- Ah, it's good to be the best. Anyway, this turned out rather fluffy at the end, but eh, I like it.

_

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Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy_

Apparently, it is capable to run out of tears, because he just realized he'd been dry sobbing for the past five minutes or so.

_our Light, our Sweetness, and our Hope_

He isn't stupid (far from it); He knows exactly what those men are doing to her. To his Mama, to his angel. He was told to run, but only half of him had wanted to. The other half had been screaming at him to stay, to fight. But he was a good mile or so away now, and turning back would mean disobeying a direct order. Mama wouldn't like that. She'd once said it saddened her to see him misbehaving, so lately he'd been trying harder. He was a good boy really, she'd say something like that every night before tucking him in.

_To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve_

But no more of that. He needed to be strong, because that's what Mama would want, and Mama was always right. He gripped the rosary in his pocket tightly before pulling it out. Mama once told him that actually wearing the thing would be sac-religious, but there was a big hole in his pocket, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing it. So, cautiously, as if he expected to be struck down, he lowered it around his slim neck. Holding the crucifix tightly, he wandered for the remainder of the night, tears flowing freely with a renewed vigor.

_To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears_

He was quiet. Oh, so very quiet. Never talking to anyone in any of the many new families he was made to be a part of, having only been adopted because he was 'a pretty child'. Five different families and three orphanages later, they're shipping him over seas because the system just doesn't know what to do with him anymore. Better to just make him someone else's problem.

_Turn them, most gracious advocate, thyne eyes of mercy towards us_

It's around his eighth birthday when men start to look at him oddly. He doesn't like it. He's always picked within the first few minutes of every line up out of all the other children, and it's usually a man. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a woman (he doesn't know why, but the latter always relieves him just the tiniest bit.), but it's usually a man. They'll touch his hair, make up some ridiculous color for it (sunflower, daisy-gold, he isn't a fucking girl!), tell him he's got flawless skin and beautiful eyes. And then they expect him to leave with them. He isn't stupid. And it just so happens that, upon one of these demonstrations of just how not stupid he really is, he's picked again, and this time it's a woman. She asks him some questions in his native tongue, and he has to make a serious effort not to wince at her thick accent before he replies rather bitterly,

"I am speaking English too."

_And after this, our exile, show onto us the most blessed fruit of thy whom, Jesus  
_  
He doesn't remember much of that day, aside from the woman's stunned face as he proceeded to answer all of her questions in as-perfect-as-you'll-get-English-with-little-to-no-schooling. And now, though he still thinks often of his mama, he's got a new angel. This one wears stripes and funny looking things over his eyes. One day, he'll work up the courage to talk to this new angel of his, but right now he's content to just sit and watch.

_O clement, O loving, O sweet virgin Mary_

He tells Mama good night every sundown, and asks if she could please watch over his new angel. Sometimes he'll remember to ask for his own protection too, but most of the time it slips his mind. He imagines Mama telling him that he really is a good boy, and that he'll do well in his classes, and that he'll be the best.

_Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God_

And one night he's awakened by soft mumbling on the other side of the room, so he cautiously makes his way over and sits on the bed. His angel is shaking and crying in his sleep, so he does the only thing he can think of. Laying down, an arms length away so as not to startle, he reaches over and pets the fiery locks, whispering something about being a good boy, really. His angel calms down, and opens one eye.

"It's Mello, right?" All he can do is nod, because his angel just spoke to him, but he can't help the yawn. "Kay, well, you can sleep here... If you want... Cause your bed is all th--"  
He's falling asleep on the spot, because his angel said he could, and his angel is always right. There's a small, childish sort of laugh, and he's just awake enough to hear, "You can call me Matt," before a deep sleep catches him. It's the best he's had since Mama was still with him.

_That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ  
_

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_**AN: **Soooo, it's 7:00 am. Bed much? Yea, review. -passes out-


End file.
